


FUTURIST 
STORIES 



MARGERY 

VERNER 

REED 







Class Jj 






Ci)P¥R!GHT DEPOSIT. 



FUTURIST STORIES 



FUTURIST STORIES 



MARGERY VERNER REED 




NEW YORK 

MITCHELL KENNERLEY 
1919 



COPYRIGHT 1919 BY 
MITCHELL KENNERLEY 






f^^^ 



©CI.A515315 

APR 22 1919 



--WQ J 



FUTURIST STORIES 

Moonbeams 

The Dream Muff 

Rose Petals 

In A Field 

Incalculable 

A Neopolitan Street Song 

In Algiers 

Candles 

Igor 

Two Had Lived 

The Fifth Symphony 

The Mad Artist 

Old Scores 

The Last 

Ashes 

Nancy Turner 

The Pawn Shop Keeper 

Something Provincial 

Conflict 

That Night His Sorrow Was Lifted 



MOONBEAMS [To V. Z, R.] 

It was a glorious winter's night. Through a blue haze 
one saw the ground, covered with snow, shining under 
the magical moon. And the trees of the forest were 
also covered with snow; great clusters glistened in 
their branches. Almost as light as day. Not a bleak 
light, but an enchanting one, which dazzled in the cold, 
brisk air. Into the woods walked the Spirit of Art. 
As he gazed at the surrounding beauty he grew sad, 
and wondered why he had never reproduced such 
splendor — the moon — the snow — Oh, he must try 
again — Tomorrow he would do better. 

Then came the Spirit of History and he too grew 
sad as he gazed into the quietude of the night. His 
hands were soiled with blood, with dark hideous 
crimes. And he asked why he had committed such 
deeds — with all this beauty around him. Why could 
he not have likened history to these woods where the 
snow was white. Tomorrow he would do better. 

And then came the Spirit of Philosophy and like the 
others he wondered why he had never been under the 
spell of the Moonbeams before — why had he filled 
the minds of men with entangled masses of dark 
thought, instead of teaching them the beauty, the en- 
chantment of a night like this. Tomorrow he would 
do better. 



The three Spirits met and talked together. The] 
would go back to the cities and begin anew. The] 
would bring the spell of the woods back with them anc 
teach men unknown things. 
A NEW Era was about to be born. 

Morning dawned cold and raw, a bleak gray ligh 
shone in the deserted streets. The three Spirits return 
ing from their wandering all too soon forgot the rnagi 
spell of the woods — the snow — the Moon — and f el 
to work once more among the sordid things of the daj 
making Art and History and Philosophy only graye 
— darker — 

And in the woods where all was beauty, the Moon 
beams shone only for the fairies as they danced unde 
the trees, and now and then for a wistful human sot 
that had strayed into the splendor of the night. 



THE DREAM MUFF [To I. K. McF.] 

One more day of horror had ended for Russia. At 

this hour once the lamps along the Neva would have 

been lighted, the laughter of sleigh-riders would have 

resounded over the snow. But now the streets were 

dark — deserted save by some wandering homeless 

people, seeking refuge in the night. 

No one seemed to know exactly what had happened — 

or the cause — 

There was no ruler — no order — 

Darkness and chaos. 

A GIRL, perhaps of twelve, sat huddled in a ragged 

shawl on the steps of a closed church. 

There had been a time when a fire burned — 

A mother — a father — 

Brothers — 

They had gone — no one knew where. The mother 

was royalist. 

She used to sew for a great lady — a Princess. 

Perhaps the jailers of a prison could tell where she 

was. 

Once — in the life that was only a memory — was it 

real — or was the biting cold — was the hunger what 

had always been — her mother had taken her to the 

house of the great lady — 



Her eyes had opened in childish wonder, as the Prin- 
cess took her from room to room. 
On a great couch of palest blue, among cushions that 
were all lace and blue and pink — a muff. 
It had been carelessly thrown down — she had loved it. 
Her greatest desire had been to touch it — to feel the 
soft gray fur on her face. 

A PIERCING wind blew from the frozen river — the 
muff — if it would come it would keep her warm — 
She would put her hand in it and hold it to her heart. 
Through half-closed lids she saw the muff — curving 
and swaying in the air — like a gray bird. 
It was looking for her — there were so many freezing 
children in the streets — she was small for her age — 
How warm — how kind of the Princess to send the 
muff. 

Maybe mother will soon be home from work — we 
can have supper — 
Boris will come from school — 
But Boris lay dying — prisoner in the enemy's land. 
When a pale sun struggled to shine down on the dirty 
streets — on the confusion and sorrow of that Russian 
city — an old Priest — dying with all the rest — of 
sorrow for his land — found the frozen body of a little 
girl — with hands clasped over her heart — a faint 
smile on her upturned face. 

4 



ROSE PETALS 

Thirty years had passed. 

Thirty years that I had spent in vainly trying to over- 
come the love and hatred which consumed me. How- 
ever occupied I was with the pressing affairs of my 
almost over-filled life I was conscious of an undercur- 
rent of despair — the despair that I had felt when Eve 
told me she no longer loved me. 
We were engaged. 

Whether she really loved me, or whether it was only 
a girlish fancy I could not tell. But the day was set 
for our wedding and was not far off when one Sunday 
afternoon I went to her house for tea. 

The mahogany table in the library was covered with 
fallen rose petals — the roses he had sent her. Al- 
though no other detail of the room has remained in my 
memory, I still can see the rose petals covering the pol- 
ished surface. By some inexplicable phenomenon 
those pink petals were fixed forever in my mind. 
I LEFT that part of the country and eventually lost all 
trace of Eve. 

Thirty years later I had a professional engagement 
with a client. 



The man was ill with a cold and asked me to come to 
his house — 

I WAS shown into a large, stately drawing-room. Great 
portraits were on the walls, there was massive furni- 
ture, fine oriental rugs. A fire blazed on the hearth. 
Then I perceived it — the great bowl of roses with 
fallen petals — scattered over the table 

Like a knife they went through my soul 

Rose petals 

Eve — the ring she had returned, which lay in some 

dark recess of my desk 

The door opened and a tall slim girl advanced — 

Eve I cried — my eyes blurred till I could hardly see. 

With a strange, somewhat strained laugh, the girl 

leplied that she had not been named for her mother, 

but it was often said that she was indeed her mother's 

living portait. 

Then she drew aside a heavy curtain — Before my 

dimmed eyes was a picture of Eve — 

My Eve — 

I FLED from the house. 

The purpose of my visit claimed not an instant of my 

thoughts. Nor did Eve. 

Nor the past. 

Rose petals only filled my mind. 



I LEARNED f rom a friend that Eve had been drowned 

years before in the St. Lawrence River — 

She had left her husband and baby girl for another 

love. 

Rose petals — 

Rose petals everywhere. 



IN A FIELD 

A CHILD of three or four was playing in the tall grass 
among the nodding buttercups and daisies. I watched 
her as she played. She seemed a fit companion of the 
flowers, this sweet babe. I longed to feel the touch of 
her little fingers on my face. 

But as I advanced to where she was playing I 
stopped abruptly with the sense of sudden chill. My 
heart even grew cold. 

Was I having a vision, was it an intuition of the 
future — or was this a meaningless phantom ! 

I had been reading of late a modern philosopher 
whose translator had made much use of that somewhat 
ghostly word. Perhaps that was what had given rise 
to this inexplicable thing. For as I stood there watch- 
ing the child there flashed across my consciousness a 
changing vision of her destiny. 

It was terrible. 

It struck me that it might be better if she could be 
taken now while innocent and sweet. 

I caught myself back from the act of judging life 
and death. 

I had been the momentary victim of a freakish 
fancy. 

I gazed at the child again, and I saw a strange thing, 
as clearly as I see you now. 

8 



She, a young woman, was standing amidst scattered 
wilted flowers, with parted lips and wide horrified 
eyes. It seemed a land far off, some land imder the 
burning sun. 

She cried out, a cry of anguish. She was there to 
hide from herself and tortured by the memory of what 
she once had been. 

I saw her again, this time on the sea, still trying to 
escape from herself, from the tyranny of her lost 
innocence. 

And then I saw her in a rapid succession of scenes, 
again and again — gambling places, drinking, — some- 
times listless and distraught — sometimes forced and 
eager — with wonderful, costly jewels. But they were 
too heavy. The price of them was weighing upon her 
soul. 

Then a grave, alone under leaden skies of some 
Northern country. No flowers now, only the moaning 

wind the cold rain. 

I LIFTED the child in my arms and kissed her. 



INCALCULABLE 

It was one of those gray days so frequent in Paris 
in the late fall. A drizzling rain was coming down 
through the bare branches of the trees and a cold mist 
was rising from the Seine. 
I FELT out of tune with the universe. 
The rain irritated me. 

To cheer my drooping spirits I took refuge in the 
Louvre. 

There I found no solace in the cold white statues of 
the lower floor. I ascended one of the broad staircases 
— the headless beauty of the Victoire de Samothrace 
only made me shudder. 

I PASSED through the halls lined on either side with 
the masterpieces of French and Italian and Spanish 
Artists. 

One in my depressed state of mind had no right to 
be there where faces of Madonnas smile down as one 
passes and deserve a freer look than mine to turn on 
them. 

I wandered out again into the street. 
I WALKED up the quai which winds along the river and 
where the quaint well-known bookshelves are built dis- 
playing to the passerby rare old books and piles of 
rubbish alike. 

10 



Despite the rain several students were eagerly looking 
through these stores of hidden wealth. 
As the Parisian would say ils bouquinaient. 
So I too began to pick up at random several old vol- 
umes. 

An English one caught my glance — 
It was a copy of Browning — old and tattered — and 
pencil-marked. Turning to the fly-leaf I saw a name, 
written in a woman's hand — 
Victoria O'Fallon — Paris i8 — 
I LOOKED up — and saw far back into now almost 
forgotten years of my life and there flashed into unac- 
countable and extraordinary vividness in my mind the 
remembrance of a western mining camp and of a girl, 
Vicky O'Fallon. She was a little red-headed beauty, 
who dreamed and talked of nothing but the stage, who 
longed to study and to travel, to release her life from 
the coarse and rude environment in which she lived. 
And I questioned almost passionately, could that little, 
discontented Irish girl be the same one whose name on 
an old yellowing page was intriguing my thought? 
How came her book here among these old volumes? 
Had some strange fate transplanted her to Paris in the 
year i8 — ? Had her dreams come true and was she on 
the stage in this great city of the world? I asked of 
the bookseller how this copy of Browning had come 

11 



into his hands. He did not know. 
I COULD not dismiss this girl, I could not forget the 
book. 

Somewhere, somehow she had read Browning. She 
obsessed my mind. 

She possessed my waking hours. I wandered from 
theatre to theatre, watching at the stage doors, and 
saw play after play, always in the hope of discovering 
this girl I had scarcely known. I studied hotel regis- 
ters, old play-bills, and always old books. I had not 
thought of her for years and now I desired more than 
anything else in life to see once more her dancing blue 
eyes and hear again her laughter. 
But it was all in vain that I scanned faces in the 
streets, in railway stations, in passing cabs. I could 
find no trace of Victoria O'Fallon. 

Years passed. 

I WAS travelling one dull English day from London 
to Glasgow. In the railway carriage toward night I 
fell into desultory talk with a sad uneasy looking man 
who shared the compartment with me. At some turn 
in the conversation he told me his name was O'Fallon. 
The worn copy of Browning seemed almost to take 
form in my hand — and Victoria — her dream, her 
hair, her enchanting laugh. 

12 



For moments I was too dazed to speak. Then I man- 
aged to ask if by any chance he was related to a girl 
Victoria O'Fallon. He stared at me in silence, while 
a look of hatred and despair distorted his face. 
Finally in a choked voice he breathed rather than 
spoke — 

I AM just out of prison because of Victoria O'Fallon 
— she was my niece. I sent her to Paris. She was on 
the stage, just one night — I struck her — she fell on 
a chair — her back. She's dead now. 
He gazed vaguely out into the gathering darkness. 
Then he seemed to remember me. 
There was a French Count he began, but his voice 
sank into silence. 
I SAT as if I had been turned to stone. 



13 



A NEAPOLITAN STREET SONG 

Alone — 

A CITY full of lights, of pleasure. The sea singing to 

itself as it rolled quietly into the harbor. A glow of 

light on distant Vesuvius. Gay throngs of people 

passing to and fro in the summer evening. Alone. 

For the first time in her life. 

A HEAVY heart — there was no joy. 

They had come to Naples on their wedding journey. 

Her brief happiness had been taken — torn from her. 

Ashes. 

He — cold — rigid — lay in the adjoining room. 

Two candles burned. A nun prayed. Monica leaned 

out of the window. 

Through her tears she saw a star shining in the night. 

A STAR of sorrow. 

The sea — they had gone together on its blue waves 

to Capri — to Sorrento — 

Was it some terrible nightmare — would she awaken 

and find him near. 

From a distant street came the sound of music — gay 

— lively — a Neapolitan street song. 

How could there be joy. The sound was agony. An 

organ might have soothed. 

Had there ever been a time when gay music delighted. 

14 



O Sole mio sang the clear voices of the street singers. 
They drew nearer — and stopped under the window. 
Monica's wounded inward self cried out for silence 
The world was drear. There should be no joyful 
singing. 

She looked down absently. A young girl stood a lit- 
tle apart from the singers. Monica noticed her — and 
their tearful eyes met. 
Then singers also could know sorrow. 
Suddenly — her own seemed lightened. 
Monica's soul surged forward. She wanted to com- 
fort, to help this brown-eyed girl. Perhaps her grief 
was harder to bear. 

One of the men stepped toward the girl and pushed 
her rudely. 
Sing he commanded. 

O Padre mio — she broke into sobs. The singers 
moved on to another street. 
Monica had read into another soul. 
Deep calling unto deep. 



15 



IN ALGIERS 

Moonlight — the still waters of the ocean — 

The deck of a ship — 

Romance and beauty — 

The great liner sailed near the northern coast of 

Africa. On the deck they had become engaged — the 

moonlight shone on them. 

Dusk and bitter cold. A young woman paced up and 
down in the snow, waiting the coming of a train. 
It was a small town in the Interior of Russia — of the 
Russia torn by wars and rebellions at home. A sor- 
row-stricken land. 

The mystery, the romance of the night — the distant 
shores of Africa — seemed still upon her. She could 
almost feel the murmur of the water as it splashed 
against the boat. 

And the next day — Algiers — the quaint streets — 
the mosques — flowers — and white robed Arabs. 
Very quietly they had been married in the Cathedral 
which bears the name of a whole continent. 
Notre Dame d'Afrique. 

The sun had smiled as it shone on the city by the sea. 
It grew colder. 
A TRAIN came into sight on the vast field of snow. 

16 



On that train the man she loved and had married was 
coming to her. 

That enchanted period in Algiers — He was return- 
ing — perhaps a wreck of his once splendid self — a 
cripple 
War 

It had shattered homes — brought skeletons — where 
once children laughed. 

Brought famine — once birds had eaten crumbs. 
War — 

Horror — dismay 
She waited 

His eyes were aghast — eyes that had seen death — 

murder — horror — side by side — 

There was no more laughter. He took Anna into his 

arms. Then the report was not true. He had not 

given his right arm. 

Anna, he whispered, My brave Anna 

I HAVE been thinking of Algiers, she murmured. We 
planned to have sunshine — and roses — even among 
the snows of our country. But we faced blood — 
blood on the snows of our forests — 

Ivan, it is bitter cold. Do not go out — into the 
night — 

17 



To Africa. The moon will be making golden streaks 
upon the water. A rose will be blooming in our gar- 
den — his eyes were vacant. 

Then it was not his arm he had given for Russia — 
it was — 

A CRY pierced the cold air. 
The weight of a dead body resounded. 
I WONDER what that was, Ivan mused — 

Which is the shortest way to the Cathedral 

These Arab streets are so steep — 



18 



CANDLES 

Before a statue of Joan of Arc, in a little country 

church, a child knelt in prayer. 

Oh protect my papa — the little one prayed. 

She lighted a candle — offered it to the Maid of 

France. 

A YOUNG girl prayed at the feet of the Saint. She 

burned a candle. 

For Andre — for his safety. 

The invaders entered the village, — heeding neither 

church nor ground of the dead. 

They ripped open shallow graves to show the living 

they had power — even over those who had gone. 

They killed the priest. And the nuns, even, from the 

school. 

They damaged. 

Destroyed — 

The church caught fire. The candles, burning before 

the Saint of Domremy, blazed into one huge flame. 

It shot up to the roof. And seemed to cry — 

O Joan of Arc — come back — France needs you. 

The child 

An Angel of Heaven 

The young girl who had prayed for Andre — two 

19 



officers had taken her. 
She struggled — 

A SWORD — 

The flames of the burning village had revealed it. 

Monsieur l'Abbe had said suicide was sin — but 

surely God would forgive — 

She pierced the sword into her white flesh — blood 

flowed to the ground. 

Little fool muttered the maddened officer. 

He went back to the village — for more destroying. 

A STONE from a burning house — 

He died with an oath. 

But Andre, weeks before, had died with prayer upon 

his lips — a thought for his sweet betrothed. 



30 



IGOR 

Onward 
To kill 
Pillage 

Only a few days before the lighted candles of a 
chapel. A young monk in prayer. Quietude in his 
soul. The brown habit — the crucifix lay forgotten. 
The maddening din of battle. Its fury burned his 
soul. 

He had been left an orphaned child. At the mon- 
astery. 

His name was Igor. Some whispered he was the son 
of a great nobleman. 
None knew for sure. 

At first his clean soul rebelled at the thought of war, 
his dark eyes flashed. 

Thou shalt not kill called from afar — but the can- 
nons deafened him 

They entered the courtyard — into the castle hall. 

Had its dwellers fled along the muddy roads and fields 

of Belgium 

No 

Some women still — 

A YOUNG one, watching for escape 

21 



Another with graying hair and soft eyes. She had 

stayed. Her sins perhaps would be forgiven on the 

Altar of Sacrifice. Burning anguish. 

She had sinned against God. — Against her husband. 

Long ago. 

Remorse still clung in her heart. 

Igor drew back - — but was pushed on by others, rude, 

boisterous, toward the wine cellars. 

Thou shalt not kill faintly — but a breaking bottle 

dimmed the sound. 

The wine heated, wakened dormant senses. 

More wine 

With shouts and cries the tottering men came from 

the cellar — Laughed at the woman with graying hair 

She was shielding a girl whose eyes resembled Igor's. 

The girl who had watched to escape. 

And could not 

The uniform, the sabre — 

Gone was the memory of a brown habit. 

He came nearer. Was it a woman — 

He clasped her. Her soft hair brushed his face. 

Other soldiers came — dragged her from him. 

Fought over her like powerful beasts, heeding not the 

mother — 

Igor — protect her 

In a drunken rage he caught the girl to the open win- 

22 



dow — 

I'll kill her he screamed. You — who seem to know 

my name. 

The crime was spared him. 

Her lifeless body slipped from his arms. 

Igor, gasped the mother, You have killed — * 

I'll kill you! — the wine had infuriated — he lifted 

his sabre — 

Stop — you are my son 

Dazed — he heard the words but understood not. 

A NIGHT of drunkenness, of horror, had passed in the 

Belgian chateau. 

The captors had damaged — broken — destroyed. 

The sun was setting on a second day — when Igor 

awoke. 

The first time in his life he awakened from drink. He 

reached out expecting to find the rough wall of the 

monastery 

He felt a dead body — the sharp edge of a sabre — 

Where — 

Orders had come 

The army 

Had there been battles — 

— And slowly memory returned — 

Stop — you are my son. 

23 



Who had said it — was it long ago — No. Only 

after the wine cellar — 

He sat up — on the floor — where drunkenness had 

overcome him. 

The horrible memory of his crime swept over him. 

His mother — 

He seized the body and gazed at the staring eyes. 

Then this was the remorse the older monks had told 

him — had been his father's — 

And he — her son — had plunged his sabre into her 

heart 

His own was bursting. 

And this girl. He had not killed her — she had 

died — 

Was she — his sister — only of a different father — 

We are through — bum 

A HARD line played on the lips of the commander 

The flames leapt from room to room — 

Igor — 

The smoke — it was overcoming him — 

His mother — 

He had forgotten how to pray 

An unutterable abyss. 

The horror of war 

24 



The fire blazed upward — smoke filled the room — 

There's the bell — he staggered to his feet — It is 

ringing 

Tell Brother John to light the candles — he walked 

into the flames — 

I am coming. 



25 



TWO HAD LIVED [To M. D, R,] 

I 

Passionately musical — Janet Knott had been sent 

abroad to study. 

Homesick and weary she wandered about in a strange 

city, knowing not even the language. 

The gray sky — the grayer buildings. Was there not 

in this city a kindly soul — one she could talk to — 

confide in — 

In a narrow street — suddenly the rich deep tones of 

an organ reached her soul — 

Built in among great buildings a small Church. 

There at least she could find comfort — and the organ. 

Was it a Requiem — minor chords — the keys seemed 

to sob under the pressure of withered hands. 

Janet sobbed too. She was homesick. Lonely — 

The music stopped and the old organist came down 

and spoke with her. He asked why she was crying. 

Your music is so sad, she whispered — 

Ah, my child, that is life — I am told to compose a 

Requiem — 

What youth, filled with the joy of living, could play 

these minor chords. 

I TOO was young once — A student at the University. 

I loved life then — 

26 



I DANCED — composed only waltzes — sang love 

songs. But now — sorrow has played on the chords 

of my heart — to teach me these deeper tones — to 

teach me music for the Passion — for the Crucifixion. 

You must learn, my child, that through sorrow men 

accomplish great things. 

When they weep they send out tones into the world 

that men remember and cherish. 

Beethoven lived and suffered — and has left to the 

world things of immortal greatness. 

But now — go — else I shall sadden you beyond your 

years 

Slowly Janet walked through the darkening streets. 
The words of the organist filled her mind. She felt 
prophetically her heart must pass through fire. 
Would she be strong enough — or would weakness — 
desire for joy — conquer and kill the power within. 

II 

The homesick girl of seventeen has given place to a 

worldly wise young woman of twenty-five. 

No more longing for the land across the seas. The 

power within still sleeps — Paris. With its pleasure 

haunts, its lights, its theatres - — 

Janet Knott — the center of an admiring coterie — 

27 



she plays light music — waltzes. The joy of being 
alive — the whirl of a great city — subdued laughter 
of groups of men and women walking in the moon- 
light — the flowering chestnut trees — the roses — 
Races of Longchamps — gay colors — a world of 
excitement. 
Life — 

Its waves swept over her. 

She had chosen between this and art — fulfillment of 
the Soul. 

Sometimes shadows of her power rose — beckoned. 
She consoled these moments with coquetry. A suc- 
cess — flowers 

The war broke out. Excitement still filled her. It 
would soon be over. 
Something new — 

Then — one by one all the men she had known, 
flirted, danced with, left for the front. To die. That 
the enemy should not pass. 
Paris in danger. Death and sorrow near. 
The best in Janet Knott gradually awakened. A de- 
sire to help grew until she could contain it no longer. 
One Sunday evening she went to Notre-Dame for 
Benediction — Kneeling in the shadows of the pillars 
she heard the organ — sad agonizing chords 

28 



Sorrow has played on the chords of my heart to 

teach me these deeper tones — 

The memory of the little church, of the old organist 

— of herself, the former Janet, the homesick child. 
Her gift — was it dead or only sleeping? Could she 
awaken it — Spin a new life on the webs of war — 
The shadow of the Janet of seventeen wept over the 
wasted years. 

Ill 

There seemed to be no end. The war-filled years 
crept slowly onward, each day bringing more sorrow 

— more death. 
Janet was torn in two. 

The human pleasure-loving side lay bleeding — dying 

inch by inch. 

The other, with tones of deepest beauty, rose above it, 

sighing that it must take such tragedy to break down 

its prison bars — that it might live. 

It rose — comforting Janet in many a weary hour — 

comforting the wounded, the dying. In a village 

church which had been turned into a base hospital she 

often played — and as they listened some pain was 

eased, some picture rose of happy fields, of homes. 

Would they see them^ again — 

In this tragedy of nations she had found herself. 

29 



Found the purpose of her life. Her art had come into 
its own — had comforted. 

Death from a shell might take her — as it took thou- 
sands each day — but she was fulfilling the mission 
of her soul. 

IV 

One night the Church Hospital lay sleeping. Very 
softly Janet crept to the organ loft — softer still she 
played to the moonlight. 

He was rapidly improving. His wounds had not been 
serious. Something — very soft, faint — woke him. 
For a minute he could not recall his surroundings — 
and he rose up — but a sharp pain in his shoulder 
brought back the memory of the trenches, of the 
horror — 

I MUST be dying — I hear faint music 

The moon shone on something white — 

An angel — 

Fully awakening to his surroundings Hugh Brandon 

realized that it was not death — not an angel — 

He would go and find out for himself — 

Janet barely touched the keys. Softer and softer 

grew the tones. He came nearer — fascinated as if 

by a magic presence. 

Their eyes met — in the moonlight. They knew that 

30 



no matter what happened to the rest of the world — 

no matter what happened to their own bodies — their 

souls were met for all Eternity. 

It was a flash from the unconscious — one of those 

strange illuminations which occur perhaps once in a 

hundred lifetimes. 

Play on, he whispered. Play for me — for England 

— whose son I am 

At noon when they had eaten — Hugh and Janet 
slipped away. She played for him. The tones were 
richer than before. Into the sadness had been poured 
the burning heat of pure love. 

V 

They had both known what they had thought was 

love, — among flowers, dances, the lovely but artificial 

things of life — 

But here — among the dying — blood, privation, life 

divested of its mantles and laid bare — the true love 

sprang up between these two. Something more than 

love. A perfect understanding of each — like the 

treble and the base of a symphony — 

In the still hours of twilight Hugh and Janet would sit 

in the organ loft together, speaking the enchanted 

language only lovers know — made dearer by the 

51 



phantom of separation ever near them. 
Dearest, when the Regiment has called me back, play- 
each day at twilight — the Miserere. If — in the 
trenches — I shall know your soul is calling to mine — 
if, beyond, my soul will drink from the depths of 

yours 

Snow was falling. 

Goodbye, dear, he whispered — 

Now even the organ could not calm. She had tasted 

the sweet of life — and it had been torn away. For 

what — 

Suddenly hate possessed her — hate for this man who 

would rule the world — causing whole nations to rise 

up against him to defend their soil — hatred for the 

power that had brought despair into unknown lives — 

Brought murder into peaceful souls. 

The days followed each other in bleak sameness. 

She moved among the wounded — a shadow self — 

But at twilight each day, Janet lived. She played the 

Miserere — with her soul. Then again — the moving 

dazed form would return to help the men lying on 

mattresses where once peasants had knelt in prayer — 

VI 

Her music became divine. The Miserere sobbed out 
into the cold night air — cleansing her soul of hatred 

32 



— even Peace — a joy — 

The air was rent by whistling shells — the organ 

throbbed under her touch — 

Hugh — forever — 

There was left only a mass of charred stones — a 

blackened wall — 

A CRUCIFIX still erect. 

The church had been unregarded by the enemy. 

They has passed — leaving desolation — 

Death had found Janet at the organ — a free soul — 

Several months later in the casualty list of a London 
newspaper appeared the name of Hugh Brandon. 



33 



THE FIFTH SYMPHONY [To R. S. L.] 



It is clear that the transmutation which the 



subject of the Allegro undergoes just before the close 
of the symphony is of the same psychological order as 
that of the Fate motive — a change from clouds to 
sunshine, from defeat to triumph." 

From Ernest Newman's criticism of Tschaikowsky. 

To all outward appearances there was nothing un- 
usual about the rehearsal. The musicians had assem- 
bled — and very softly the andante of Tschaikowsky's 
Fifth Symphony in E minor had begun — a dream- 
like wave — which little by little swelled — and 
dropped again — now as a hymn — a plea for un- 
known happiness. 

Dasha Ivanovna Tortsov played. Since the first 
time she had heard this Slavic Symphony, one snowy 
night in Moscow, she had loved it. Queer yet beau- 
tiful ideas were brought by it into her mind — The 
String Movement — plentiful crops — full hearts of 
joy — But how could her heart be joyful? What 
right ever had she to be playing Russian music? She 
had deserted — left — talked against Russia, exag- 
gerated the oppressions, the sufferings, had ridiculed 
all that others held sacred — Dolce — the running 

34 



waters of Russia in the summer, a clear sky — then 
the coming of fall with the brown leaves — a gradual 
decline into winter. — A storm — oh — how she had 
loved storms — in bygone days — then. And again 
still weather — the dance of gypsies at a fair — very 
low — a sound — a murmur — 

She scarcely heard the orchestra leader's shrill 
whistle, his calls of Back to letter B — or letter F — 
or Strings softer there 

It was Russia — wistful — half-fulfilled thoughts. 
Longing she had never known before took possession 
of her soul. 

Gloom — and yet the very depth of a Russian's heart, 
pouring itself out in the mystic symphony. 
Then — a lighter mood — again the green woods and 
water — oh for the happy song of the boatman on the 
Volga. 

Higher and higher rose the trepidation. She was 
tense — what was it — what was breaking loose 
within her — Higher and higher rose the waves of the 
music — 

Silence — again the strings — balm — the call of the 
woods — the odor of pines. 
Thunder — rolling thunder — 
— and peace — 
Bluebells on the grass. 

35 



To onlookers she was but a young musician — a little 
pale — with strange Slavic eyes — and no human 
being could perceive the emotions — the mental suf- 
fering — as if the cords of her heart were being tight- 
ened until they must break — her former self must die 
that she could reawaken — A conquered self. 

The last movement was beginning. Dasha Ivan- 
ovna was hardly conscious that she played. The music 
swept around her — military — a call — to what? It 
was of marching — a faint — far away — Somewhere 
— out of childhood days rose the memory of her tiny 
hands applauding Russian soldiers as they passed — 
But now like a deserter she had turned away from the 
once loved country. 
Troiki — on glistening snow — 

And then what she always termed the Triumphant 
part of the symphony — where each time she played 
it, she knew not why — but Aida — the triumphant 
entry of the King 
Rhadames — 

and Cossacks riding madly — furiously 
Splendor — 

Dasha — no it was not the leader's whistle — it was 
an inward voice — no one else could hear its piercing, 
agonizing sound — only the depth of her very being 

36 



knew — a call — Russia — the land of her fathers that 

she had deserted. 

Cossacks riding in the Steppes — 

She dropped her bow and moved trance-like from the 

hall — 

Russia 

II 

Dasha Ivanovna was once more in the land of her 
forefathers. Already she had walked in familiar 
streets, had seen familiar buildings. Alone — some- 
things within her did not need the outside world. Not 
lonely therefor. And a strange kindling happiness in 
her soul — a sense of triumph over her former Nihil- 
istic self. 

She saw no friends — the ones of former days — 
Nihilists. They were perhaps hiding in foreign lands 
— or were in the darker seclusion of some Siberian 
Prison. But there rose no longing for these friends, 
no wish at all for them. 

No longer was she Dasha Ivanovna Tortsov the Nihil- 
ist — the free thinker — 

Peace had come to her — she wanted Peace for 
others — 

No longer a desire to see those in power killed — only 

37 



the dark forests and running waters, the wild flowers 

in the woods. 

Joy filled her — Forgotten lay the haunting fear of 

other days — the gloom cast by Prison walls — which 

had seemed ever to draw in upon her. 

To live — to let live — to send up Hymns of joy. 

It was on the steps of Saint Isaac^s Cathedral. 
Dared she advance — dared she go in to the splendor 
of the Altars — to pray — 

And ever the Fifth Symphony like a guiding spirit 
seemed to whisper at her ear — 
Triumphant over Defeat 
Light out of gloom — 

Dasha filled her days with joy. The joy of being 
alive, of being freed from herself — 
She saw the sky and heard the laughter of children in 
the street — 

Somehow — in New York — when she had belonged 
to the orchestra she had never noticed the sky. A 
few months more and the snow would come — 
A WINTER in Russia — 

The early summer months passed quickly — until that 
first terrible day of August, 19 14, when all the horrors 
of the world were set loose and the monsters from the 
under-world of men's mind's were stalking unashamed. 

38 



If Dasha had put aside her Nihilistic feelings — she 

laid them still farther from her now. 

A PURPOSE to serve her Russia lifted itself high and 

strong before her soul. 

She smiled as she thought of death. 

Ill 

Snow and cold — suffering — starvation — in the for- 
ests the birds were dead — 
Little children were dead — 

The stream of fugitives increased as the days passed 
— Starvation — death — 

Triumphant over Defeat still rang in Dasha's ears — 
Some day it would come — 
Triumph — 

She clothed a child here — 
Comforted a mother there — 

And still they came — over the snow and corpses — 
through the woods — fugitives everywhere — 
Dasha worked — worked with all her heart — fed — 
clothed — 

Out into the snows, into the storms to look for the 
wanderers and bring them to a shelter — 

Have mercy on my soul — she whispered — For- 
give— 

39 



The Andante far away — calling — Dasha — a 

reward — 

Dasha Ivanovna died on a bed of snow — On her 

dead face was a triumphant sweet look. 

The fugitives wept and prayed as they buried her in 

the woods. 

When summer came bluebells grew over her grave. 



40 



THE MAD ARTIST 

Faintly — 

Speak, speak — Angel or demon, or both, speak to me 
before I throw you into the sea. 
The storm raged in all its fury around the house, and 
the rain beat down — 

Speak, or I'll break you into a thousand pieces. 
But the only answer was the smile of the Angel with 
the uplifted eyes and the outspread wings as if she was 
about to ascend to Heaven. The marble Angel that 
was to have been his masterpiece! His last gift to 
man was now his hated treasure. 
Night came on and with it the fury of the storm in- 
creased — and still the mad artist now implored, now 
threatened. The Angel smiled and looked Heavenward. 
When I chose a model for my masterpiece, he mur- 
mured, she was beautiful, but had not the face of that 
Angel. How came I to copy the image in my heart 
and not the living one that for months was each day 
here in my studio. 

The storm raged without, and within the artist groped 
for light, clung to the shreds of memory. His mad- 
ness was increasing, his head seemed miles away. 
What had he been thinking of just then, had he seen 
a woman rise from a tomb — no, it was the Angel. 

41 



He must get to work and finish it. But it was fin- 
ished. Vaguely he remembered dismissing his model. 
Speak — with a faint cry of anguish he rushed to the 
statue. Speak, image of my lost Louise! But no, 
you are cold marble, you have no life, no warmth — 
Still, it must be the girl I loved. It is her mouth, 
her eyes. 

The wind moaned around the house, seeming to call 
the name of Louise. The mad artist wept, and groped 
for light, for memory. Vaguely he could see, 'way 
back in some half -forgotten period, a nurse leaning 
over his cot. The noise of battle still rang in his ears 
— but that was all past, in his other life — now there 
were phantoms and the image in his heart of the lost 
Louise. Why had he chosen that name. That name 
made him think of running water. Where was rev- 
erie — Oh yes, it was the statue — well it must die. 
Never should men see his masterpiece that had cost 
him all the joy of life. For he had likened the fea- 
tures of the Angel after Louise. 
Speak, demon, he implored. Take on a woman's 
voice. 

The storm had ceased and the sun shone brightly on 
the wet grass and the flowers of a day in June. One 
ray peeped in at the window of the studio and saw the 

42 



Angel broken by hammer and chisel on the floor. Its 
smiling face seemed to forgive all the madness of the 
night. 

From what strange nightmare was he awakening ? At 
the sight of his loved and hated Angel broken at his 
feet, his senses were slowly returning — But with 
what pain they came — as if his head must break. 
He could not think yet — he would later on. He had 
been mad — he remembered the doctor saying so — In 
France — shell shock. 

It had come over him as he stood by the gate of the 
Chateau. Then a hospital. Afterward all had been 
darkness, a horrible groping amid a thousand broken 
memories, phantoms which had shrouded him. But 
now it was over. He was sane — life, life ! Oh what 
joy to live again, as one risen from the tomb — he 
would travel out into the world — far from his studio. 
The attendant entered bringing lunch to the mad 
artist and found him dead, his lips pressed to the 
marble ones of his Angel, the image of Louise. 
She was only one of his many phantoms. 



43 



OLD SCORES 

A NIGHT of untold beauty. 
Cobwebs on the heavens. 

A GRAY winter sky, brightened by the moon shining 
through it. 

Bare branches of hundreds of trees interlacing their 
silvery boughs. 

And a cottage with thatched roof and square leaded 
panes — a setting for romance, for dreams of vision- 
ary splendor. 

Is the master at home, asked a strange woman of the 
old man servant. 
He has not yet returned. 
Then I will wait for him. 

And despite the protests of the servant, Donna Maria 
entered the room. It was a story and a half in height. 
There was a huge fireplace, and everywhere, without 
arrangement, in the happy disorder of a studio, were 
canvases and palettes. 
Another setting for romance. 

But romance — at least for tonight — has not found 
its way to the studio in the woods. 

There was perhaps some intuition, some forewarning 
of disaster in the mind of Robert Hale. He walked 

44 



abstractedly, untouched by the beauty of the night. 
He was deep in the inner experience of the conception 
of a new picture. 
He entered his house. 
There is a woman, sir. 

A WOMAN but I want to be alone. 

The old servant slept — roused for a moment by the 

closing of a door. 

Shea's gone, he muttered — and slept again. 

Through the splendor of the night they went — 

through its mystery, its beauty. 

She, tense, frightened lest her power should fail on 

the verge of success — 

He in a kind of trance, with wavering mind — strange 

thoughts — nothing clear — a haze 

They stopped under a great oak. 

Do you remember your Egyptian Dancer asked 

Donna Maria for the hundredth time. 

Egyptian Dancer, he answered tonelessly. No, I tell 

you I killed him. 

With a sense of victory she led him on through the 

night. 

Her mind incessantly repeated to the overpowered 

mind of the artist 

You killed him You killed him. 

45 



The alienist gave his testimony. The prisoner was 
mad. Clearly. 

To every question he responded — I killed him. 
And endlessly the court room resounded with dull, 
monotonous voices 

Some pleading for — some against the artist. 
Donna Maria was satisfied. 

She would go away and Robert — well, no matter — 
She hated him. 

He had scorned her advances — her coquettish smiles, 
years ago in Rome when he was a student. 
She had been unable to forget. Her pride was like 
an open wound. 
Hale was acquitted. 

But his mind was gone. A harmless type of insanity 
expressing itself in vague reiterations of a fixed idea. 
Day after day he walked in the open — Once on and 
on, down a slope. He slipped. And made a violent 
clutch to save himself. The cold waters of the river 
closed over him. Shock and sudden pain — the pene- 
trating pain that comes with returning consciousness — 
He began to struggle, got his stroke and swam. 

Did you kill the Banker Brunton, the physician in- 

quiried gently. 

The Banker Brunton — Hale asked curiously — I 

46 



never heard of him. 

A TRAIN of thought seemed starting. 

But I remember a woman — she dropped her muff — 

I stooped to pick it up 

She must have struck me — 

Or was it her eyes ! 

Once, long ago — in Rome — she tried to influence 

me that way. 

I DESPISE her. 

When she came back I was tired. I gave in. Let's 

not talk about it. 

The physician looked at Hale with the look of a kind 

big brother. 

Then he went to the telephone. 



47 



THE LAST 

This is the last day for me. Tomorrow at this time 
many hours will have passed since the iron door of 
my cell was unlocked and I was taken along the cor- 
ridors of the prison and across the yard to the place 
of execution. Already I shall know for myself what 
lies on the other side, I shall have ceased forever, I 
hope, to count the bars of my iron door, my sole occu- 
pation and the one thing which keeps me from think- 
ing too much of the past, so bitter. 
Why did they come today. Did they think they would 
ease my pain, did they think it was charity to play for 
us, here in the prison. 

At first their music only irritated me and kept me 
from counting properly the iron bars. Then it en- 
raged me, that woman with the soprano voice — 
But I counted my iron bars — 

Suddenly the pain, worse than any I had ever known, 
— remorse, sorrow, longing, — crowded into my soul. 
I felt as if I should die. 

A MAN at the piano was playing the melody my mother 
most often played. My agony was beyond bearing. 
Repentance again swept over me, and eased me. It 
had been many years since I had heard that old-fash- 
ioned tune. At the first chord on the piano a flood of 

48 



memories rushed back to me. 

I WAS once more a boy, in the library at home — 

lighted lamps and the curtains drawn — a fire blazed 

and crackled 

My younger brothers sat on the floor near it, amusing 

themselves by fancying they saw monsters and castles 

in the depths of the flames. 

My father was there 

My sisters and my mother too. 

Oh_, misericorde! 

What pain at the sight of her — 

She is there now — 

before me at the piano, and I hear that melody. 

And who is that boy sitting there, 

— the hope and pride of his family. He is reading 
some book of Roman exploits and deeds of bravery — 
His boyish soul is clean. 

I AM sorrowful unto madness. 

I may not live to see the hour of dawn. 

The hour of execution. 

This grief will kill me 

— that melody ! 

Long since the musicians have returned to their 

homes, 

I still hear it, note for note. 

Mother to welcome me — 

49 



Peace in my soul. 

Forgive, Great Master, forgive Thy wandering sheep ! 

I have strayed, my Lord, far — 

I REPENT — I come — 



50 



ASHES 

It was a large house on the outskirts of the town. 
In the living room a fire blazed. Soft shaded lights 
— a contrast to the blizzard raging outside. 
A SMALL gathering of people for informal afternoon 
tea. 

Lydia Stuart had come in rather late. She sat com- 
fortably on a huge divan near the fire. 
A PICTURESQUE magnetic figure, dressed in purple, 
with beautiful warm furs. 

Rather dreamily she gazed at the fire. And mused 
to herself on the strangeness of life — 
Ashes — 

Something within her long ago had died. And the 
new Lydia had risen, stronger, better, for the horrible 
struggles against herself — 
Against him.' 

Her art had been created by the ashes of a dead love. 
She had conquered. 

On the other side of the fireplace was standing the 
man she had once loved. 

The man who had once possessed her every waking 
hour. 

She had fought. An inward battle — a brave 
struggle — 

51 



In another town she had begged him not to see her — 
not to write. 

Then later they had met unexpectedly at a ball — 

There was music — many flowers — brightness — 

laughter — 

His arms had held her close as they danced — 

A FLOOD of memories rushed across her mind. 

For a moment she had stood with laughing lips — 

It had been a moment of triumph. 

Then,, out of nothing — with no tie to the absorbing 

passing moment, the image of her mother rose in her 

thought. 

The triumph gave way to a new compelling mood. 

She was choosing between two loves — 

With cold, calculating eyes he had watched her as she 

moved across the floor — 

A GRACEFUL figure in pink. 

No one saw her as she slipped home — sad — the 
depths of her soul in burning conflict. The flowers 
she held fell unnoticed. 
The greatest struggle of her life. 
Dawn found her still fighting against the overpower- 
ing yearning. 
For months she struggled. 

52 



Her art increased. 

A DYING part of Lydia gave power to a new-born per- 
sonality — strong deep-seeing character grew up from 
the ashes of her former light self. 

This afternoon, sitting on the great divan, she re- 
flected and understood. 
Perhaps she had overcome months before. 
Till now she had not known. 

At last — only ashes — where once had been love — 
He stood there — looking at her. 
She saw him only as a stranger — 
She did not know him — save his name — 
The new Lydia — the artist — could find nothing in 
common, no union of thought. 

What strange lost element in her had once loved this 
man — 

Lydia — risen from the ashes — walked out into the 
snow and cold'. She felt her release to a new freedom. 
She could meet him again — without harm — 
Anywhere — 
At any time — 
He was a stranger. 



53 



NANCY TURNER 

Nancy Turner, Teacher of Dancing. 
This inscription engraved on a brass plate had become 
as familiar to me as the grim row of terraces and the 
solemn-looking door to which it was nailed. How 
many times had I not passed it, as I walked from my 
house to my place of business. Passed it on snowy 
mornings and gray misty evenings, or in the summer 
time when birds chirruped and sang and the sun 
smiled down upon the earth. I had read it over and 
over again, as I was wont to do the names of the 
streets and squares, especially on my homeward walk. 

L Street — a turn to the right, the inscription on 

the door, B square — and I was already half- 
way home to my cheerful fireside, to my books and 
my violin; where Shakespeare, Milton and Beethoven 
would be ready at my whispered call to help me while 
away the hours of the evening. 

But once as I passed this certain row of terraces, some- 
thing, hitherto unknown, semed to take possession of 
me. I began to see the sign in a new light and won- 
dered why I had taken it for granted all these years, — 
and never once thought that indeed Nancy Turner 
must be a real person. It was true that I had never 
seen anyone enter the house, but then I passed it at 

54 



hours when people would not be likely to be taking 
dancing lessons. I began to wonder at my being so 
absent-minded that I could for years read these five 
words and never have them leave more than a slight 
impression. 

And suddenly I found myself wondering what sort of 
person this dancing teacher was. Surely young and 
talented, perhaps even beautiful. I mused about her 
half the way home. I even wove some strange and 
fanciful day dreams about her — when to my sorrow 
I remembered I was no longer young ! 
And therefore Nancy Turner was also middle-aged. 
For had not the inscription bearing her name been on 
that door ever since I was a young boy — perhaps long 
before my time. 

For days I thought about her and failed in explana- 
tions to myself, of my sudden strange fascination for 
an unknown name. 

The days flew by, and my curiosity to meet and talk 
with her only increased. 

So one cold and gloomy evening I took courage and 
knocked at her door. 

To my surprise the gruff voice of a man bade me enter. 
I found myself in a small room, blue with smoke and 
poorly furnished. An old man was cooking supper, 
as he hummed some weird old gypsy tune. He seemed 

55 



scarcely to notice me and displayed neither surprise 
nor dissatisfaction at my sudden appearance. I mur- 
mured some excuse about being in the wrong house, 
that I was looking for Nancy Turner in order to learn 
about some of the newest dance steps. 

And now you know the story of my life, of hers, and 
of your own, he said with a sigh. Strange that I 
should have asked your name. And stranger still that 
you came here as if led by the hand of Fate. But now 
that we have discovered that we are half brothers I 
hope you will come often to chat with me, here in this 
house where we were both born. I will tell you more 
about our beautiful mother, of her fame when she 
danced at the opera, of the days long ago when she and 
my father and I lived here so happily, of the tragedy 
— but no — let us forget the past. She forgave — 
therefore our friendship must be without shadow from 
the start. 



THE PAWN-SHOP KEEPER 

I am an old man and life has long since lost the 
glamor it once held for me. The thrills of youth are 
no more, novelty is a forgotten word, and things that 
once would have made my heart leap now leave me 
cold. Old age indeed is in itself a punishment for the 
follies of youth and sad is it to await alone the coming 
of death without some loved face near. For one by 
one the friends of bygone days have dropped by the 
roadside and I have been left alone to follow my weary 
way. Happy they who die while still young and do 
not know the solitude of a lonely old man. 

Day after day, as I sit behind my counter, or warm 
my old hands by the cheerful blaze of the fire, do cus- 
tomers come to me to buy something or perhaps to sell 
some loved relic in order that they may live. 
All of them faces strange and new. They look at me 
as if to say Why this one dried leaf of another year 
left on this 'tree? Aye, and why am I left — Why 
among these young, green leaves am I the only with- 
ered one? Why were no companions left to cheer me? 

But these are questions I can not answer, for I know 
not the ways of God. 

As I sit here musing over the past, faces I have 
known come back to me and I love to wonder what 

57 



fate held in store for them, as advancing, the filmy- 
mists of their futures were slowly lifted until the last 
veil was drawn back and the story of their lives was 
told. 

The snow is falling and covering in white the grim 
rows of houses opposite my little shop, the streets are 
deserted save by a few hurrying pedestrians and some 
merry school children going down to the frozen river 
for an hour's skating before dusk — 
And I am here before the fire, dreaming and waiting, 
for yesterday brought me an experience very different 
from my usual monotonous life. 

Was it all some phantom ? It must be. 

The Miriam that I have longed for all these years 
was not here yesterday, did not sit in this very chair. 
It must have been a vision, the mere fancy of an old 
man's mind. For how many times in sleep has not the 
same dream come to me as a whispered message from 
another world, from her grave even — and on awak- 
ening I always seemed to know that her journey 
through life was at an end. 

But no, it was not a phantom, for here is the neck- 
lace. Then it was not a dream. Fate has really sent 
her to me so we can cheer each other in these, the last 
hours of our earthly lives. 

But will she come back today as she promised ? Or 



will she depart again, this time for good, so that I 
shall see her no more until I have crossed the River of 
Death. 

O Miriam, come to me, I need you more now than 
ever before. Come, I am waiting with outstretched 
arms. 

Yes, she is coming. I see the yet distant form of 
the one I love. She is approaching, coming ever nearer. 
Miriam, what happiness we shall yet have together, in 
the dusk of our lives, what pleasant hours here by the 
fire — 

Death, kindly death, come now to me. She passed 
by my shop and turned the corner and went toward 
the station. Her heart then is still cold as stone. 

It was the money I paid her for the necklace that 
bought her ticket to another town ■ 



59 



SOMETHING PROVINCIAL 

The little house in Pemborough Square had been 
vacant for many years. 
No lights through the closed shutters — 
No smoke from the chimneys — 
Evening — 

An old woman was sitting on the doorstep muttering 
to herself in some strange tongue — 
Her vague eyes saw neither the square nor its straight 
rows of trees — 

Only something far away — a memory perhaps 
Some tragedy lay hidden in her heart. 
Many years ago this small house had been occupied 
by a family with several children — children that 
played games in the great garden behind. 
A YOUNG woman had been much with the little troop 
of children. 

They had all loved her who played with them as if a 
child herself and in happy hours had sung French 
songs to them. 

She had gone away, they had heard to the Island of 
Madeira. 

— and the children soon forgot their sweet friend. 
On the steps of this now abandoned house sat the mut- 
tering old woman. 

60 



The sound of quick steps aroused her — she peered 
through the gathering gloom — 
A YOUNG man was coming nearer 
The woman rose slowly to her feet and waited 
rigidly 

It is you — you ! she whispered hoarsely — 
Her words went like shots at the slight figure, now 
perceptible 

He stopped abruptly and shuddered like one accused 
of crime. 

I DO not know you, he managed to say. He had a flat 
thin voice. 

You once lived in this house, the woman said men- 
acingly. 

He shuddered again and stepped back 
The young man began to wonder. Could she be the 
sweet French woman that the village children had 
loved — 

that he, the eldest of the little group had in his boyish 
awakening been' romantic over — 
The gypsy sensed his admission of her charge. 
She went on — Do you know who you are? 
Do you know where you got your black hair ? 
He lifted his hand unsteadily in the direction of his 
head. 
The old creature nodded and fixed him with her fierce 

61 



eyes. 

I AM not your mother 

Neither was the woman you called by that name. 

The young man gasped. 

His body grew tense. 

He remembered his adored mother whose grave he 

visited every Sunday morning. 

He made an effort to think that this was only a gypsy 

— an impostor — 

The woman was speaking — 

Neither your father nor mother ever knew that you 

were not their child. 

Their little boy is dead 

You filled his place. 

Her voice sank almost to a breath. 

I PLACED you in his cradle. 

An intolerable silence. 

I LOVED your father 

You never knew that he was a Portuguese nobleman. 

Did you ever hear of Madeira, she asked sharply 

It was there that one by one all the passions of love — 

hatred — revenge had torn my heart. He married and 

came to England — I followed — repulsed, ignored. 

My only weapon against him — was to contrive — the 

death — of his little son. 

But to kill a child — 

€2 



She caught a shuddering breath. 

I COULD not — 

I HID it securely. 

Once again I visited Madeira. On the steps of the 

Church I stabbed my enemy among the flowers in that 

land of beauty — a crime to darken its perfection. 

So you belong to me — 

You owe me much — 

All that you can pay. 

The little sum of money he had in the Postal Savings 

rose into his mind — and gave him amazing steadiness 

His voice sounded loud and full in his own ears 

You lie ! he shouted suddenly. 

You lie ! you fiend ! Come into the daylight. 

He was tearing his mind free from the influence of the 

place, the shadows — the possessing voice of the 

woman. 

She crouched back toward the door. 

It is you — you ! she muttered accusingly. 

No, by Heaven, it's you ! he cried. I see through you 

now 

Two men came running attracted by his loud voice 

They lead the gypsy to a place of security 

It is you, she kept muttering to each in turn. 

The young man walked behind with straightened back 

and shining eyes. 

63 



CONFLICT 

It is night — a moonlight night in the Orient — 
The earth is flooded in mystic beauty — 
Midnight songbirds in the trees. 
And in the Palace of the Sultan — great marble halls 

— fountains of running water — moonlight shining in. 
Strange, weird music of the desert played by slaves. 
It is the picturesque setting of a strange tale — a tale 
of inward struggle. 

The Sultan — lying amid splendor, vivid coloring of 
the East — softened by the night's mysterious light. 
Among flowers and heavily-scented perfumes. 
His dancing girls have left — his bronzed face — 
framed in black hair — his dark eyes — wear a look, 
an expression of satisfied desire — Life holds noth- 
ing new for him — only the continuation of old 
pleasures. 

At last a heavy portiere is lifted. 
Perhaps you were expecting an oriental girl of dark 
beauty — a slave — 
The girl advancing to the Sultan's couch is European 

— a Russian of noble birth. 

Among the palms of the Orient — almost as a slave 

she sojourns in the palace of the Sultan. 

Only one of many, a passionate love holds her there. 

64 



Ever following — pursuing, is the other self — the 
gentle nature, which understands neither passion nor 
envy. The self which still fears and loves — yet — 
has no courage for prayer. And the spirit of this 
gentle nature whispers to the dominant one — 

Lift yourself up and come away — I will lead you 
far from the moonlight — the overpowering perfumes 

— into the bleak light of day — peace will find you. 
No — the stillness of the night — the kisses of my 

Sultan content me. But soon the inner voice cried so 

loud — even the moonlight could not quiet it. 

Pulling against the inner self — her heart must 

break. 

The soft music of the slaves — once it had soothed 

her — but now — 

It was the howling wind of a northern land — of 

Russia — or the pealing of a bell — There had been 

a chapel in the dark Zamok where her childhood had 

been spent. 

The inner voice called Katherine — but could not yet 

overcome the blood which flowed in Katherine's veins 

— the blood of a favorite of a Czar. 

Sometimes in the light of day the inner, other self of 
Katherine would overcome — would want to flee — 
but ever the mysticism of Oriental nights would draw 
out more strongly than before the tainted blood of the 

65 



unfortunate. 

Finally the Sultan grew disdainful — There were 

newer girls brought from Mecca, from the desert. 

The great — the inevitable conflict with her inner self 

left her torn — haggard. 

For days she hung between life and death — with no 

one to care, save an old colored slave. 

Gone the mystic atmosphere of the Orient — the 

music of cymbals. 

A PROVINCIAL town in France — with the ill-lighted 
streets — and a steady down-pour of winter rain. 
It is Christmas eve 

Through the window Katherine has been watching a 
procession of people hastening to midnight Mass at 
the Cathedral. Women — dressed in the picturesque 
garb and coif of Brittany — men and children — 
What peace is theirs — they know of the Christ Child 

— of his Mother — and no streams of lowest passion 

— can cover their souls. 

The Cathedral of Nantes has stood in its Gothic 

beauty for many centuries — has witnessed many 

scenes. 

That night a soul struggled against the past. 

A WOMAN — she was alive — for she walked — 

moved. But within — she was numb. 

66 



She lay almost fainting on the steps of a side Altar — 

before the creche — 

Her inner self was pleading — Katherine — live 

again ! 

Presently the Adeste Fidelis sounded — throbbed — 

filled the church 

How beautiful — she murmured. 

The memory of the Sultan rose and fell each time at 

the sight of the candles, the acolytes in prayer. A 

vision so fierce and lustful could not live in this sacred 

place. 

My child — advised the old Priest — pray — pray 
always for forgiveness — for enlightenment — for 
guidance. One who seeks these things as fervently as 
you do always finds. 



67 



THAT NIGHT HIS SORROW WAS LIFTED. 

All ye are Christ's and Christ is God. — Saint Paul 

High in the mountains, 

above the cities 

where all was calm — peaceful — 

a golden moon shone down 

lighting bare branches and fallen leaves — 

lighting the dark pines — 

It shone on the lake, in a valley in the mountains, 

making golden streaks upon the waters — 

Christ walked on earth that night and stopped near 

the shore of the lake 

He looked into its depths — 

at the sky — at the moon — 

and felt the cold night air on His Face. 

A GREAT sadness had overcome Him. 

God had reflected a corner of Heaven to men on 

Earth — 

and they did not pause in pleasure or in sorrow — 

no one felt the beauty of those mountains. 

He stood alone by the lake — 

again looked into its depths — 

What peace — what beauty — 

Down below — 

68 



men grappled with death 

not beautiful death 

but hatred — lust — filled their souls. 

They killed — and were killed 

The agonizing sorrow of Gethsemane again swept 

over Christ, as He stood by the Lake 

and wondered if men would ever be worthy of the 

gift of life — 

if they would ever make it beautiful — and not 

terrible — 

They were endowed with a certain freedom — 

they used it to make wars — 

to think of barbarous machines that would kill and 

torture — 

The fiendish cries of battle v/ere in the great valley 

below — 

Cannons roared 

and flashed a red glare into the sky — 

Tears filled His eyes as He thought of the unprepared 

souls which were being hurled into Eternity — 

on both sides of the battle line — 

The broken homes — 

His heart was breaking in sorrow for the people He 

loved so well — 

Moon streaks were playing on the water — 

The cold night air blew through the trees. 

69 



Christ wept — 

men surely were not worthy of life — 

of the beauty which filled the world — 

He turned away — 

and still hearing the noise of battle — 

walked under the pines — 

He came upon a small cabin — 

sheltered by tall trees — 

the roof was covered by fallen leaves — 

a light shone from the window. 

Inside — a babe slept in its cradle — 

and the mother gently rocked it — 

singing a soft lullaby — 

Her thoughts were with him, in the valley below — 

battling in the iron clutch of war — 

Scarcely knowing for what — or for whom he 

fought — 

She kissed her babe 

and knelt down before its cradle — 

Oh Christ — 

help me in my hour of need. 

protect him — 

protect my child — 

The sorrow of Christ had gone — 
The mother's soul leaned to Him — 

70 



for help — 

unconsciously she had helped Him — 

on that night of beauty in the mountains — 

when below — the world was being torn — ravaged — 

The noise of battle died away from Him — 

He heard only the prayer — 

the soft breathing of the child and the whispering of 

the trees — 

He gathered the mother's prayer into His heart 

and blessed her as He walked away 

Yes — men were worthy — 

this hysteria of war would pass 

Peace and love would come. 



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